Zoey's POV

When I pushed open the classroom door, all thirty-two heads swiveled toward me in unison.

Mr. Brown's chalk hung suspended mid-air, his eyes scanning me from behind his glasses, his mouth pressed into a thin line.

"Zoey, the unit quiz has already started."

"Sorry, Mr. Brown."

I kept my head down and hurried toward the back row. As I passed the middle section, someone let out a quiet snicker. I didn't turn around, but caught a glimpse of Cordelia in my peripheral vision—third seat by the window, nails tapping lightly on her desk, that 'I knew it' smirk playing at the corners of her mouth.

Florence sat one row behind her, eyes fixed on her test paper, as if the hallway incident had nothing to do with her whatsoever.

My stomach twisted again.

I slid into my seat. The test paper was already waiting, face-down on my desk. I flipped it over. The numbers in the first question swam before my eyes twice before I could focus.

Normal distribution. Confidence intervals. Hypothesis testing.

I took a deep breath and gripped my pen.

Lawrence's voice was still spinning in my head—"She just needed help, so I helped her."

My pen touched paper, but halfway through writing the formula, I froze. How do you calculate degrees of freedom for a chi-square distribution again? I'd definitely reviewed this last night.

Whatever. Skip it.

Question three. Regression analysis. I could recite the formula for standard error of the slope, but my brain felt like a dismantled clock—gears refusing to catch.

All because of that scene in the hallway.

No, not entirely. It was because of how Lawrence had pulled his hand away from mine. When he'd rushed toward Cordelia to defend me, my arm had suddenly gone empty, my fingers spread wide, grasping nothing.

The movement had been too quick—so quick he probably hadn't even realized he'd done it.

But I remembered.

"Hey."

A paper ball landed precisely next to my elbow.

I glanced sideways. Ophelia sat to my left and back one row, holding her textbook up to hide her face while she mouthed words at me.

"Are. You. Okay?"

I gave her a small nod.

She mouthed again: "You. Look. Like. Death."

I almost laughed out loud, quickly ducking my head back to my test.

For the next twenty minutes, I forced my attention to nail itself to the paper. Standard deviation, p-values, rejection regions. I wrote out each step meticulously. Even if my mind was at war, my hands couldn't afford to lose.

When I turned in my test, I'd finished about ninety percent. The remaining ten percent—I knew I could've gotten those questions right, but being late had eaten up my time.

Mr. Brown collected my paper without comment, but gave me a look. That particular teacher expression of 'I have high expectations for you, which makes my disappointment especially keen.'

This was the second time in two days I'd seen that look. The first had been from Octavia.

Before the bell even rang, Ophelia had already dragged her chair over next to mine.

"Spill."

"Spill what?"

"Don't play dumb. When you walked in, your face screamed 'attempted murder.' What happened?"

I hesitated, then lowered my voice and told her about the hallway. Cordelia's taunts, Lawrence defending me, Florence standing there with that group, then the argument Lawrence and I had afterward.

Ophelia's expression cycled through "outraged—disgusted—speechless" in rapid succession.

"Wait, let me get this straight. Yesterday he forgot to pick you up because he was tutoring Florence. Today Florence stands there with Cordelia while you're getting trashed, and he says Florence is 'actually nice'?"

"He thinks she might've accidentally gotten mixed up with the wrong crowd."

Ophelia's mouth opened, then closed. She made an exaggerated breathing motion.

"Okay. I'm about to say some things that might upset you."

"Since when do you care if I'm upset?"

"You're right, I don't." She propped her chin on her folded arms. "Zoey, do you think Lawrence helps Florence because he's too nice?"

"...Pretty much. He's the type who'll say yes to anyone who asks."

"Has he ever been too nice and forgotten to pick up Cordelia from somewhere?"

I paused.

"Or tutored Cordelia? Or helped Mr. Brown carry equipment? Or helped the cafeteria ladies wipe tables?"

"That comparison is a bit—"

"My comparison is perfectly accurate." Ophelia straightened up. "His kindness is selective, Zoey. He chooses who deserves his kindness, and that person just happens to have been standing with the group that trashed you this morning."

I fiddled with my pen cap, spinning it three times before it clattered to the floor.

"Maybe she really was just there by chance. You don't know Florence, and neither do I."

Ophelia looked at me for two seconds, then leaned back in her chair and raised both hands in surrender.

"Fine, you win. I'm shutting up now. But remember what I said today—when you need material for your memoir someday, you can use this part."

Her tone made me laugh despite myself, and my shoulders finally relaxed a fraction.

Seeing me smile, she smoothly changed the subject. "By the way, did you notice Mr. Brown's toupee is crooked again? Today it's tilted left. Last week it was tilted right. I'm keeping observational records. By the end of the semester, I'm going to calculate the average displacement of his hairpiece. 'That's' the proper application of AP Statistics."

"Ophelia, if Mr. Brown heard you say that—"

"He'd give me extra credit for an excellent statistical research project."

I doubled over laughing. Two students in the front row turned to look, probably thinking I'd lost my mind.

But I needed this moment. Needed someone to pull me out of that world full of cracks, even if only for two minutes.

When the bell rang, the classroom filled with the sound of students standing and packing bags. I moved slowly, stuffing my textbook into my backpack, deliberately stalling because I didn't want to leave.

Ophelia obviously noticed but didn't call me out on it.

"Lunch together?" she asked casually.

I was about to say yes when my phone buzzed in my pocket.

Lawrence: [Babe, I'm waiting outside your classroom. I'll take you to lunch.]

I stared at the screen, my thumb hovering above it.

Ophelia leaned over and glanced at it, her expression visibly deflating.

"You're going."

Not a question.

"He's waiting outside."

"Right. He's waiting outside." She repeated it, her tone completely flat. "Just like yesterday he was supposed to be waiting outside the rink."

"Ophelia."

"Go." She swung her jacket over her shoulder and stepped back, clearing a path for me. "I'll hit the cafeteria and have lunch with my cinnamon roll. At least the cinnamon roll won't be late."

I knew she was angry, but she wouldn't stop me. She never stopped me.

I walked out the classroom door. Lawrence was leaning against the opposite wall, his uniform jacket draped over his forearm. The moment he saw me, his whole face lit up.

"Hey, babe. How'd the quiz go?"

"Okay. I was a few minutes late, didn't finish the last question."

His smile faltered slightly. "Because of this morning? I'm sorry, I shouldn't have let you—"

"It's not your fault."

The words came out so quickly they surprised even me.

Lawrence visibly relaxed, smoothly taking my backpack and slinging it over his own shoulder.

"Come on, let's go to that Vietnamese place. The one you said you wanted to try."

I fell into step beside him. Sunlight poured through the windows at the end of the hallway, softening the lines of his profile. He called out a greeting to a passing teammate, then bent down to step on my shoelace that had come undone.

"Crouch down. Tie it properly."

I crouched to tie my shoelace while he stood guard, blocking the flow of traffic around me.

It was moments like these that made it impossible for me to stay cold toward him.

Because he really did notice when my shoelace was untied.

But he also really did forget to pick me up.

Could both these things exist in the same person? Maybe. But which one was the real Lawrence?

At lunch, he ordered two bowls of pho and picked all the cilantro out of mine, transferring it to his own bowl.

"What time does practice end today?"

"Six-thirty."

"I'll pick you up."

"You sure?"

He set down his utensils and pinched my cheek with his left hand, his expression so serious it was almost comical.

"Miss Zoey, I swear on my football career—I'll be there on time today. If I'm even one minute late, you can throw my quarterback helmet in the trash."

I couldn't help it—I laughed.

That was just like him. He always knew exactly the right thing to say, exactly the right gesture to make, right when I was about to give up—making me lower the shield I'd already raised.

I knew this wasn't right. Ophelia knew it too.

But right now, the sunlight was warm, the soup was hot, and his fingers were wrapped around my wrist, his thumb tracing circles over my pulse.

I didn't want to think anymore. At least not this afternoon.